  The tossing poplar in the wind Shows underleaf of silver-white; The roughness of the wind unkind Torments her out of all delight. But O that he were here Whose blows and whose caresses alike were dear! The great oak to the tearing blast Stands steady with strong arms held wide, So over him my anger passed, When his rough usage hurt my pride. But O that once again I might arouse that passion, endure that pain! |
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